


We're The Same, You and I

by CommunionNimrod



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Discussions of Drug Use, M/M, Possibly Unrequited Love, Sherlock is pining, post-Watson wedding, some actual drug use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-28
Updated: 2015-02-28
Packaged: 2018-03-15 13:41:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3449222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CommunionNimrod/pseuds/CommunionNimrod
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the turn of events at John's wedding, Sherlock is needing to focus on other things.  Move on.  However, he find he cannot stop thinking about a certain brief conversation with Major James Sholto.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We're The Same, You and I

Sherlock paced back and forth in front of the fireplace, frowning.  He needed something to do.  He was going mad.  He stared down at his arm before huffing and grabbing another nicotine patch of the mantel, slapping it on roughly.  He slowed, stopping and just stared down at himself.

The patches weren’t helping.  He had known that to be the case, and had already taken steps around it.  They weren’t good steps, not when calculating everything, but Sherlock found he could hardly care anymore.

Magnussen.  The name had appeared a few weeks prior, though at the time was nothing of consequence.  However, it was starting to become even more so, and it was all very interesting.  It was a potential case, and he was a rather despicable man, and Sherlock knew he couldn’t resist taking a look.  He couldn’t in his current state, though.  No, that would be too expected, too threatening.  He would have to…

They wouldn’t like it.  Mycroft.  Lestrade.   _John_.

John’s name sent a pang through Sherlock’s chest.  John wouldn’t like it.  He hardly saw how it mattered though, because John went off and got married and was going to be a father and would be out of the country on some stupid sex holiday and... Not here.

Sherlock knew who he had to contact.  The plan was already setting into motion.  It came at the perfect time, honestly.  However, apart from all of this unfolding before him, there was something Sherlock couldn’t stop thinking about.  The wedding.  Specifically, the attempted murder that took place at the wedding.  The entire encounter with Major James Sholto locked in his room, on the verge of losing his life, stuck in Sherlock’s mind and he could not get it out.

_“Mr. Holmes, you are I are similar, I think.”_

__

_“Yes, I think we are.”_

__

_“There’s a proper time to die, isn’t there?”_

That’s what Sholto had said, but Sherlock wasn’t convinced that was what he meant.  Not entirely.  That is what was bothering him the most.  He had deduced it, of course, over the period of time Sholto and John were in the same room.  It became abundantly clear very quickly watching John gaze up at his former commander.  John had always been an open book.  Yet, for once, Sherlock wasn’t satisfied with what he had deduced.  No, he needed more.  He needed confirmation.

He knew this was a poor idea.  He should just stay in the flat, or go to one of the well-known alleys and start getting high again.  This was a much worse idea than that, though he knew everyone in his life would beg to differ.  Even still, that didn’t stop him from snatching his coat and flying down the stairs.  He hailed a taxi and stared out the window as it took him through London and to St. Bart’s.

He strode into the lobby of the hospital, coat billowing behind him dramatically and causing a few people to glance at him as he approached the front desk.  The receptionist froze in her typing and glanced up curiously, a bit alarmed at the intensity Sherlock was exuding.  She hadn’t slept in thirty hours, was on her fifth cup of coffee, had just gotten over a bad breakup, and currently had what Sherlock assumed to be a comforting affair with another nurse.

“May I help you?” she asked, tilting her head.

“I need Major James Sholto’s room,” Sherlock demanded.  There was hesitance in her expression as her eyes flitted down to a file to her left; Sherlock followed her gaze instantly.  His medical files.  How convenient.

“I am sorry, but… he is not accepting visitors,” she said, slowly standing. “I need to ask you to leave, sir.”

“He will want to see me,” Sherlock insisted, not taking his eyes off the file.  Room 305.  Perfect.

“Sir, I’m sorry, but-”

“I saved his life, he will make an exception,” Sherlock interrupted, already stepping away from the desk and turning.  The woman called after him but he ignored it, heading across the lobby and making his way down the hall to his left.  He didn’t pass very many people as he made his way through the hospital - just a nurse here and there, and a single doctor - before he found the room in question.  It was, of course, guarded by a tall man in uniform that squared his shoulders and stepped in front of the cracked door as Sherlock approached.

“This room is restricted,” the man said - soldier, injured abroad so brought home but not discharged, not happy about his babysitting guard duty, but has not complained.

“I need to speak to Major Sholto,” Sherlock said, eyes running across the man’s uniform before switching to peer inside the room.

“I cannot allow you to do that,” the soldier said. “You need to leave, sir.”

“I am Sherlock Holmes, I saved his life, so if you would kindly step aside,” he requested, but the tone in his voice was anything but a request.  He gave the man a smile that did not reach his eyes.

“Sir, I still cannot-”

“It’s all right,” a slightly groggy voice called from inside the room. “He can enter.”

The soldier sighed through his nose, closing his eyes in clear reluctance to let Sherlock have access to the room.  After a moment, however, he stepped aside and jerked his head toward the door.

“Don’t think I won’t be keeping an eye on you,” he basically threatened, before pushing the door open a bit more.

The corner of Sherlock’s mouth twitched a bit, and he shifted to the side and entered the room.  It was as clean and organized as one would expect from a hospital room, with a television hanging up on the wall, turned off.  There was a door in one corner of the room that led to a toilet.  Machines lined the walls behind the bed, which was sat in the very middle, with James Sholto lying in it.  He looked pale and exhausted, but overall seemingly out of danger.

“Mister Holmes,” Sholto greeted, nodding in his direction as he shifted slightly.  The movement caused a brief grimace that the man pushed down immediately. “How can I help you today?  You are honestly the last person I expected to see pay me a visit in here.”

“What you said,” Sherlock blurted, walking forward and falling gracefully into the chair next to the bed.  He threaded his fingers together and rested his chin on the bridge they created, elbows pressing on his knees. “At John’s wedding.  That we are the same.”

“You are a smart man, logical,” Sholto began to explain, noting that Sherlock was not there for any kind of small talk. “You may not have ever been a soldier but you’ve seen your fair share of war and death.  That time comes to us all and it is clear you are one that acknowledges it instead of trying to fight like most men.”

“Indeed, but I am not convinced that’s what you meant,” Sherlock said, eyes slanting.  His heart was pounding.  A part of him did not want to hear what Sholto would have to say.  However, he needed to hear it.  It would likely drive him mental not knowing 100%.

“I do not believe I need to explain it to you,” Sholto countered, slanting his own eyes slightly. “You are already quite aware of what I meant.”

Sherlock sighed, frowning.  This was why he hated speaking to other people.  They were tedious and never wanted to get to the point.  Huffing, he slammed his hands down on the arms of the chair and pushed himself up, turning on his heel.  He honestly had not been sure what to expect.  James Sholto was a private man.  It did not matter what had happened at John’s wedding, that was not something that would change.

“When did you know?” Sholto called out as Sherlock was approaching the door.  He froze, hand outstretched, breath stuck in his throat.  Slowly, he turned to look back at the injured man, remaining silent as his hand fell to his side.

“When did you know you were in love with John Watson?”

And there it was.  The words Sherlock had never wanted to hear spoken out loud.  The undeniable truth that Sherlock hated more than anything in this moment.  While he knew that his expression gave nothing away, there would be no point in lying to the man.  That single question confirmed the suspicions Sherlock had been having since he’d first seen the Major at John’s reception.

Yes, they were the same, weren’t they?

Sholto was sitting there patiently, waiting for an answer.  An answer that he knew he would get.  Sherlock sighed through his nose and took a step back, coming further into the room again and turning.  His shoulders slumped as he made his way back over to the chair and slowly sat down.  It wasn’t until he was slightly slumped and his legs were stretched out under the bed that he spoke.

“A few years ago,” Sherlock muttered, staring at his hands so he wouldn’t have to look at the man.  He wasn’t very good at admitting this, but if he could to anyone, it would be James Sholto. “There was a case, and… Well, he risked his life to save me.  He had bombs strapped to him and he was still trying to save _my life_.  Idiot.”

“He’s a noble man,” Sholto said after a few moments of silence.  Sherlock hummed in agreement.

“I suppose… I always have,” Sherlock admitted, shifting a bit at the discomfort of the conversation he somehow couldn’t find himself trying to avoid. “Thinking on it.  But I didn’t realize until then.  What about you?”

“What about me?” Sholto asked in return.

“Don’t be an idiot,” Sherlock scoffed. “When did you realize you were in love with John?”  

“I doubt you would be interested in the details,” Sholto deflected. “You don’t seem the type to seek out army stories.”

“Major, if I was not interested I wouldn’t have asked,” Sherlock said irritably.  They were both in love with the same man.  Sherlock found that he wanted nothing more than to know when it happened for him.  It didn’t help that he knew nothing about their relationship.  John had never talked about Sholto to him.  Sherlock still didn’t understand why.

“It was…” Sholto started, licking his lips and taking a slow breath, before reaching over to adjust  what looked to be a morphine drip. “During combat.  One of my lieutenants and I had been pinned down by enemy fire, cornered and just barely behind cover.  The lieutenant was badly injured.  Watson risked his neck to get over to us.  He was the doctor on the lines, so it was his duty to get to the fallen, but… no one expected him to achieve it in the situation we were in.  He got us out.  Not only did he save our lives, but he also made his first kill, and remained composed throughout.”

Sherlock found himself surprisingly fascinated.  It made him realize that he’d never really heard tales of what John had done in the army, and now that he’d gotten a taste, he was oddly starved for it.  He took a slow breath.

“He and I had done our fair share of flirting and he had drunkenly attempted to proposition me well before that day, but… Yes, I suppose it was then.  It was that moment that I realized he was much more to me than he had seemed.”

Sherlock stared over at Sholto, watching the range of emotions moving across his face.  Adoration, fondness, loss.  For what hadn’t been the first time that week, Sherlock found himself regretting his actions.  He regretted that first night, at Angelos, saying he was married to his work.  He regretted not kissing John when they’d finally made it back to the flat after the incident with Moriarty in the pool.  He regretted not telling John how he felt at Baskerville, or over the phone when he…

Now, it was too late.  John was married, and he was going to be a father.  Sherlock had used that best man speech to say in his own way how much he loved John.  However, he knew that John still didn’t know just how much that was.  He never would, if Sherlock had anything to do with it.

“Our ending may have been more painful, but from one man to another, Sherlock, I am sorry,” Sholto spoke again after a few moments.  Sherlock blinked.

“You’re sorry?”

“I had my chances,” Sholto explained. “It didn’t end well but, we had our time together, John and I.  I know you were not so lucky, however, and for that I am sorry.”

“I don’t need your pity,” Sherlock growled, trying to ignore the tightness in his chest.

“I am not offering pity,” Sholto shook his head. “Just my sympathies.  I understand more than most what you are dealing with, and I am sorry.”

Sherlock glared, ignoring the way he could feel his face heating up.  Sholto just looked back at him evenly, chin tilted, much in the same manner John often did.  The comparison sent a pang through his chest.  It was too much.  Shaking his head, Sherlock stood, mumbling some form of farewell and wishes for recovery as he practically stumbled out of the room.  

Everything was white noise as he made his way out of Bart’s and hailed a cab.  He sat there, staring numbly out of the window as he was taken back to Baker Street.  His curiosity had been sated, his suspicions confirmed, and he had never felt so much regret for it before.  Perhaps he would have been better off not having that conversation.  Perhaps it would have all been easier to push down if he hadn’t acknowledged it out loud.

It was all over.  John was gone.  He had a family and a home, he did not need Baker Street and cases and ruined jumpers.  He did not need Sherlock.

_Alone is what I have_ , he thought to himself, vision blurring with tears that he would not let fall. _Alone protects me.  Sentiment is a chemical defect.  It is weakness.  The Work is what I need.  Nothing else.  The Work._

Standing in the middle of Baker Street, Sherlock found himself thinking about Sholto.  About John.  They had been in love, they had been together.  John had always seemed to care for Sherlock.  Had he made the biggest mistake of his life all those years ago?  Was this the cost, his punishment?

He and Sholto may have been the same, but Sholto was luckier.  Nothing would change that, and Sherlock could never reach that point.  It was all over.  With a sigh, he knelt down and pulled a small box out from under the sofa.  He opened it and stared at the syringed inside.  Glancing up, his pale eyes scanned across the papers that had been tacked up along the wall: wedding planning.  The wedding he had helped create, and that had destroyed him.

Sighing, Sherlock glanced down at the case file on the table in front of him.  Charles Augustus Magnussen.  The Work.  Licking his lips, he stroked the syringe as he stood, turning and sitting down in his leather chair.  He slid down, legs stretching across the expanse of the floor until they almost touched the chair across from him.

 **  
**This was for The Work.  This was for his mind.  This was for… anything but the misery of John.  He needed those feelings gone.  He needed his mind quiet and focused.  Staring at the empty chair across from him, the chair that had quite possibly held his last chance just days previous, Sherlock slid the needle into his skin and sighed as everything became clear and distant in ways they hadn’t been in a long time.


End file.
